Cleaning Up

On a recent Disability After Dark mini-podcast Andrew Gurza talked about the embarrassment of not being able to clean up properly after jacking off. In fact self-pleasure was something he (& his letter guest) found complex to even negotiate. As teen I had the ability to make this exploration in private. I didn’t have to find some code word to let my parents or anyone else know what I was up to. The need to keep it a secret was paramount in fact.

I was able to clean up myself but there was that crusty evidence. My mother once asked me what had happened to my socks? Oh, I … uh … stepped into some goo? Where, not in this house? I had no idea what to tell here. She said something like – Stay away from such dirty- disgusting habits.” This was one of the things that eventually pushed me into doing my own laundry.

I found out about jacking off from some guys that I casually knew – not even friends of mine. They were talking about growing pubic hair & then about ‘pulling themselves.’ They asked me if I had ever pulled myself & I hated to admit that I didn’t know what they meant.

All the sex talk I’d heard/had up to that point growing up in Cape Breton – I guess I was around 14 at the time – was about making out with girls, feeling them up, fingering them but nothing about playing with oneself. So one of them told what it was – how to do to & what result to expect. I tried it but nothing happened the first few times then I got the knack of it.

Did in the bathroom for a time but that lacked real privacy – hurry up, what are you dong in there – so the bed became the spot, though I did do it outside a few times where clean up of my surroundings wasn’t the issue issue – cleaning myself up was though. It was also the main reason I never shared my bedroom with my brother. I was fairly clear on that without giving a reason.

Even today that is one thing I rarely hear guys talk about. It’s as if admitting one still jacks off is a sign that no one wants them sexually so they are forced to satisfy themselves with help from porn. It’s become a sort of sad joke, last resort, as opposed to a fulfilling sexual expression.


he was one of those new scraggly clones

wisps of chin hair

glasses verging on skater punk nerd

laughing about venti coffee

even tossed out a latin phrase or two

but that wasn’t what I wanted tripping from his tongue


the frisky feel in the dark corner of the bar

made it clear he was packing more

than his super baggy jeans revealed

that was unless I was fooling myself

maybe he had a loaf of bread in his basket


when we got back to my place

my suspicions of unsliced was confirmed

he dropped his pants to reveal

the creature from the porn lagoon

thicker than the accents

of an entire Brazilian water polo team

his balls

whole worlds in the palm of my hand

his skin was like cozy flannel

his tongue a whispering clock

tasted of unripe apples

his teeth

warm endlessly round ice crystals

melted drooling draining

each step of the ten thousand to the the temple

his nipples express train rush pressure

for immersion into the guttural swamp of gasps

arm pits salt seasoned liquorice tempura teasing

ripple muscle stomach dunes

saharan but not parched for long

as we shifted camel humps

burdened with a growing treasure

an oasis of pubic eden

cilia savoury basil blue freshly crushed

rushed breathing deeply


this creature from the porn lagoon

an already oozing fountain

watermelon and baby power

his trembling tip tongue touch

amazing and transporting

back to back

face to face

tumble of choices chances escaping grasps

pushing back for more of the torment

his laugh now clinking in unfinished

coffee cups in my memory

HotDamn! It’s A Queer Slam

April 03 – every Tuesday

June 8-9 – Capturing Fire 2018 – Washington D.C. (flight & hotel already booked) 

Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy ice cream in Washington at 2018’s – sweet,eh?

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#Carnival Planet #Calliope


there is this circus of flesh

that moves faster

than the blood can pound

that over rides all cautions

lessons learned  go out the window

when that circus opens

cotton candy balls of fun

for the ones who surrender

to take give take give

rise and fall

expectation and delivery

the fierce red flush of ginger hair

that surrounds the heave and heft

of the the timid and free

fleeting and heavy

melt of the stars

into a mouth

into the sudden rise

shape fall

stomach churning moment

when a glance is returned

can it be for me

take this opportunity

to ride the ride

to strut the street

to be in the middle of the bed

sheet strewn masses

wrinkled rivers of shadows

dim corner

vibrant and frightened

tongue chasing twists

buttons popping

slow stroke of zipper

happy slide of pants



shoes socks

fly through the air

merry go around


I know the promise

I take this opportunity

to chase the roller coaster

to sharper shocks

higher highs

all dips hips slips no splinters

only the rock solid rocket

twist and tumble

the grazed knees

the bruised knuckles

the wet dry hot cool

sweat sweet breath to catch

running faster lunge

the weight of one on the other

that pulls each to the earth

accepts and shares

separates and courses

through the veins

beat pulse

throb shudder

seek the chance to get back on the ride

I know the circus

will pitch another tent

but I am reluctant to leave this one

so sweetly pitched

so well enjoyed

employed spent and flaccid

dreamy and sleepy

cozy warm comforting

how did this come about

what was the momentum

what was the cause

of this gift satisfaction

of this mind cleaning eruption

this blank slate surrender

for a few blinding seconds

squeaky mattress and lost footing

of where is my …

…. are these yours

tomorrow soon again

as good as the last time

better than ever

comfortable and accomplished


yes so accomplished

we play each other

like a big rolly polly

steam calliope

that never runs out of steam


This time of the year can be a carnival for the senses – all this commercial shouting about gifts, the perfect music, more people than usual looking for something, some one. Caught up in lights, seasonal smells of cooking, candy and too much aftershave on the subway (or not enough). A crush rush that exhausts but leaves little time savour it.browndresser02

This piece is about relishing but only if one surrenders to the momentum. I’m also working at writing about sex without being overt – aiming for a hormone level of response. The circus analogy for sex isn’t new but I wanted to see what I could do with it.

I like some of the phrasing and the way it slips for one half-image into another is an almost unnoticeable flow – ‘the melt of stars/ into a mouth.’ In edit I did work on pacing, on sequence, to have it flow up and down, as it were, to follow the flow of meeting, tentative, then hopping on the ride and ending with the need for the ride to continue. For me the thickness of calliope music was a nice symbol for the thickness of cock.blackchair01

This is an old piece, goes back to early 2000’s in fact, when I was getting back into poetry. I wanted to write about sex without saying ‘dick.’ That wasn’t such a difficult challenge though as I become more comfortable in front of audiences my sex writing become more direct. The need to distance from overt queer content seemed dishonest.

Not that I wanted to write directly pornographic explicit poetry but I wanted to stop trying to make some of my writing less universal – I think this piece is fairly genderless – it could opposites attract or same sex encounters. With no writer’s name attached it could be written by any sex. blackchair02

It is authentic but at the same time hiding something from the reader. That hiding came from my own residual fear of being too direct – what if audiences are offended by ‘dick’ – today I don’t care. If my being a white, entitled, cismale, over 50 who likes dick offends someone – such is life. Welcome to carnival planet earth.


Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee in Washington – sweet,eh?

Like my pictures? I post lots on Tumblr